


Your Cruel Device

by ladyvivien



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Bond needs to be kept out of trouble, Boss/Employee Relationship, Chastity Device, F/M, Lingerie, Masturbation, Older Woman/Younger Man, Orgasm Control, Sex Toys, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-05
Updated: 2013-05-05
Packaged: 2017-12-10 12:37:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/786126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyvivien/pseuds/ladyvivien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bond's off on a mission, and this time M has a plan to keep him out of trouble.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Cruel Device

He’s just leaving Q branch, armed with a variety of new toys - none of which explode, much to his chagrin - when Tanner catches him.

“She wants you upstairs.” No need to ask who ‘she’ is. Even with his rotating cast of pretty young things, there’s only ever one her.

She’s finishing up a call when he throws himself down onto the other chair, ignoring Villiers’ indignant squawks, drumming his fingers on the desk. He’s been briefed, he’s got his weapons, the last thing he wants is another lecture about keeping his legs closed and not shooting anyone unnecessarily.

She finishes the call, fires off an email without looking at him, buzzes Villiers to bring her a cup of coffee without asking if he wants anything, and then looks up as though she’s only just noticed him.

“Ah, Bond. One last thing before you leave.”

She pulls a box out of her drawer. Normally he’d hope it contains something explosive, but M flatly refuses to encourage him in what she refers to as his ‘wanton, taxpayer-funded vandalism’.

He frowns. “I’ve already been to Q branch.”

She smiles blandly, but there’s a glimmer of devilment in her eyes. “I doubt you’d want Q giving you this.”

He opens it, and any irritation or pre-mission excitement is gone. There’s only one thought in his head.

“Are you fucking _kidding_ me, M?”

She meets his incredulous expression with a cool gaze. “You’re a brilliant agent when you’re not thinking with your cock, James. This will merely eliminate any... distractions.” She picks up the item, running her fingers over the steel with a little smirk twitching at the corners of her mouth.

It’s a cage. A fucking _cage_. And the shape of it leaves no doubt in Bond’s mind whatsoever about what it’s supposed to contain.

“I’m not wearing that,” he says flatly, crossing his arms.

“This wasn’t a request, James.” She meets his gaze until he looks away, swallowing, aware he’s conceding defeat. “Allow me to demonstrate.”

God help him, she actually starts to show him how it works, and it turns out that the banana by her keyboard wasn’t just there in case she felt like a mid-afternoon potassium fix.

“I know how they work,” he stops her, feeling his cheeks flame. Off her amused, quizzical look, he snaps defensively, “They covered it in training. I may have my share of kinks, M, but hardcore sadomasochism isn’t one of them.” That he’s more than happy to indulge in the lighter side isn’t really relevant here, he tells himself, because there is no way in hell that he’s letting M put that thing on his dick.

He’s this close to bringing out his safeword, since he’s in no doubt that she knows what it is, when she smiles sweetly.

“You’re lucky I didn’t get the one with spikes.” His eyes water. “You can keep this on for the duration of the mission,” she continues, as if she’s discussing the weather, “and I’ll remove it on your return. At least it’s one way of making sure you turn up for your debriefing,” she adds tartly.

Three weeks. Three sodding weeks without being able to have so much as a wank. He knows that M loves yanking on his leash, if only to remind him that she can, but he’d never had her pegged as a sadist.

And then it clicks.

“Admit it,” he accuses smugly. “This has nothing to do with the mission. You just don’t want anyone else to get their hands on me.”

A lesser woman would have flinched, but M has always had the best poker face in the Service. “You think too highly of yourself, 007,” she says crisply turning back to her paperwork.

He snorts. “You’re the one who ordered it in extra-large.”

Her mouth twitches as she fights the urge to laugh, and he feels himself giving in. If he can’t talk her out of it, and he might as well let her have her fun. Besides, the thought of M spending this much time - and money, because he doesn’t believe for a second that even she would dare to buy this on the company dime - thinking about his cock is having a very predictable reaction.

He sighs dramatically. “Go on then,” he mutters. “Put it on.”

She glances up sharply, and he watches as realisation dawns that she’s actually going to have to maneuver him into it. She hadn’t thought her plan through this far.

He leans back in his chair, tilting his pelvis up towards her with a leer. “I’m all yours, M.”

Her eyes darken at that, and when her tongue flickers across her lips she looks positively feral for the fraction of a second it takes her to get herself under control.

“Right then,” she says briskly. “Stand up, trousers down.”

He does it slowly, unbuttoning his trousers slowly as she pointedly looks elsewhere. He clears his throat when they pool around his ankles, and she turns to him.

She gives him a withering glare, which has the opposite effect. “I meant everything, 007.” Her gaze drops and she swallows visibly.

“Problem, M?” he asks breezily.

“This might be more difficult than I expected,” she says thickly.

He runs his hand over his cloth-covered erection and smirks. “Looks as though you might need to take care of something first.”

Her eyes darken and for a moment he thinks she’s going pull him free of his increasingly-restrictive boxers and take him into her mouth right there in her office, but the moment passes and she straightens up.

She jerks her head towards the private bathroom in the corner of her office.

“Nothing you can’t handle, 007.”

She moves back behind her desk and picks up the phone, assuming he’ll obey. And he does. But she never said anything about closing the door.

“Prime Minister,” she says in a voice that’s practically a purr, and if that’s the voice that high office gets you then maybe he should rethink his choice of career. “About the situation in Qatar...”

It’s a few moments before his movements catch her eye and she looks up, faltering mid-sentence.

He’s leaning against the doorframe, trousers and boxers around his ankles, fisting his cock slowly, his eyes fixed on her.

And then he says it.

“ _M _...”__ Her name comes out in a whisper, not the harsh grunts he reserves for those late nights or early mornings when he imagines everything he wants to do to her.

Her breath hitches

“Yeah,” he sighs, rubbing his thumb over the head of his cock, smearing pre-cum over his aching shaft. “You wanted me to get myself off? You’re what I think about when I do it. Not those pretty tarts I pick up on the job. You.”

She runs her tongue over her lips and answers the PM in a voice that’s only shaking slightly.

“This isn’t the first time I’ve done this, you know,” he informs her. “Excused myself in the middle of a meeting and locked myself in here to think about the way your arse looks in those skirts.”

The pencil she’s gripping snaps clean in two. She won’t look at him. She can’t, he realises with a thrill of victory. Not unless she wants to start heavy-breathing down the phone to the Prime Minister.

“I’ve wanked myself dry over you, M,” he continues. “Bossy cow. Do you have any idea how hard it gets me to have you rake me over the coals? So stern and in control at the office - I bet you’re not like that in bed.” He let his eyes flutter shut, his head fall back, as he imagines this in exquisitely filthy detail for a moment. “I’ve got a confession to make,” he pants out. “It wasn’t just your computer I went through when I broke into your flat.”

He opens his eyes to watch her reaction. Her lips purse but her eyes widen, and he can tell she’s enjoying this even if she won’t admit it to herself.

“Might have had a quick rummage through your knicker drawer,” he grins. “Naughty, naughty girl, M. All that silk and lace beneath your business suits. Which pair are you wearing now, hmm? Those pretty pink ones with the ribbon at the sides? All it would take is one quick tug from me and they’d be on the floor. Or is it that wispy little scrap of lace that barely covers your pussy and certainly not your arse?”

Her eyes are closed, and she’s biting her lower lip in a way that makes him want to come over there and bite it for her, but she still manages to respond to the PM’s question with a detailed analysis of the current situation in Doha.

And damned if that doesn’t make him even harder.

“Or maybe...” he drawls, because he’s not going to let her win this round, “just maybe, the reason you look so hot and bothered is because you’re wearing the ones that aren’t even knickers at all, just a strand of pearls held in place by your garter belt. Yes, I liked those,” he muses as he watches her squirm, barely even responding to the PM now, just murmuring agreement to god knows what. She’s probably just agreed to invade France without realising. “Do you have any idea how many girls I’ve fucked, thinking about those pearls pressed up inside you?”

This time she gasps out loud.

“Sorry, Prime Minister,” she gasps. “I...I spilled a cup of tea. Yes, yes, I’ll call you back in just a moment.”

She stares at him silently, her eyes dark with desire, focused on his every move. His hand stills, his cock hard and leaking between his fingers.

“Carry on, Bond,” she says hoarsely.

“Touch yourself,” he murmurs in the voice that’s lured countless women more experienced than she into bed. “I can see how much you want to. No one else will know, just the two of us.”

She shakes her head, not trusting herself to speak.

“Come on,” he urges. “I bet you’ve done it before, thinking about me. I’m putting on a show for you, you might as well enjoy it.”

She watches him, hands where he can see them, gripping the table so hard her knuckles turn white all from the effort not to get herself off there and then.

“I said carry on, 007,” she rasps.

He nods, and resumes his handiwork, muttering under his breath, spilling all his secrets, telling her all the filthy things he wants to do to her. She should strip him of his licence here and now for the way he’s crumbling beneath her hungry gaze.

He tugs on his balls and hears a quiet moan.

__“ _James..._ ”_ _

He’s so close, so fucking close.

“Oh, Christ, M, I’m going to...”

“Not on the carpet, you’re not,” she snaps.

Instead, he buries himself in her towels, spunking messily into the soft grey fabric with a roar. As he shakes with the force of his climax, he can feel M’s eyes on him, watching him come undone.

He shudders his way through his orgasm and when he looks up, embarrassed now that the heady rush of arousal is beginning to fade, she’s leaning against the desk with a look on her face as though she’s committing every detail to memory and fully intends to replay it later. He moves, trembling, to clean himself up, and when he turns around she’s holding the towels, her fingers dangerously close to the sticky mess he’s left behind.

“I can hardly leave them for the cleaners, can I?” she asks waspishly, before turning and retrieving a plastic bag from her desk and depositing them inside. “I’ll have to take them home to wash.”

The thought of M taking the towels he’s just come all over home with her makes his head spin.

Once the evidence of his lusts has been safely stashed away - and he’ll never look at a Bag For Life in the same way again - he presents himself to her, his limp cock twitching slightly as her cool fingers encircle him, easing him into the metal device. It’s not as bad as he’d feared, although he knows that the next time he starts to get hard and realises he can’t will be jarring. And with the memory of M watching as he worked himself to orgasm playing on a loop in his mind, he’s going to spend the next few weeks very frustrated.

She locks it and sits back on her heels, admiring her handiwork.

“Much better,” she says approvingly. “Perhaps I should make this a feature of all your missions.”

Remembering the option of spikes, he bites his tongue and merely says obediently,

“Whatever you think best, Ma’am.” He buttons up his trousers, surprised that the object between his legs isn’t obvious unless you know what you’re looking for.

She laughs mockingly, and ruffles his hair even though she has to reach up to do it.

“Now be on your way before I decide to send you the dry cleaning bill.”

He gives her a jaunty mock-salute and turns to leave.

“Oh, and 007?”

He sighs with relief when he sees the small key she’s holding. Then she drops it down her blouse and he imagines the cool metal resting between lace and warm skin.

“Good luck.”

He’s never needed it more.


End file.
